Funny Vignette

just to tide you over till I actually think of something Faaascinating to post

click right here

What are YOU staring at?

What? Seriously, what do you want?
I've got nothing. NOTHING I tell you. Good-day!

I said Good-Day!

What, your still here?

*Sigh*
Alright, fine. I can waste my time with you.

What is it now?!


No, no, don't go. I meant we could waste time together.
I'm sorry, that was really rude.
Okay if you stay I'll tell you a truuuue story....


A long time ago I came out of the closet.
I was at work and there were 2 other people in the office and I just came out.
They both just stared at me as I stood there blinking wondering what they were thinking. They had this look of confusion and surprise. Obviously, they didn't know I was in the closet because one of them said as much.
But it has these long shelves and it's dark and cool. I liked to nap in there.

Huh, not in the mood. Well how about an Unsolved Mystery

R and I both had Beta fish for a while.
He got his from a fancy-schmancy pet store. I got mine from pet co. His was black and blue. He thought he'd go through a few so he named it Alpha. Alpha was a jumper, he would jump up at your fingers as you tried to feed him. He would make it hard to change the water with all his jumping. R's cats drank the water out of the large vase he kept Alpha in. R called them his fish filters. My beta was red and purple. One of my cats and I loved to watch Mr. Fish swim. He died after 2 months from ick, so I got another (sickly) one from the same pet co. I figured if he was gonna die anyway he should at least have a bigger place to swim. He looked like Mr. Fish so I named him Mr. Fish, but gave him the first name of Lazarus. He died too.
When R and I moved in together we moved Alpha ontop of the bar (away from the 4 pesky cats).
One day he came home and Alpha was gone. The vase was still upright, there was no water anywhere and we never found any fish parts or mess of where he might have landed and/or been chewed. We could only think maybe he jumped.
Maybe he ran away on the tips of his tail like the fish do in Dr. Seuss.

Not that either huh? Well how about a weather report
involving cats?

It's hot and we have no AC. We are trying to do everything but get an air conditioner

R: Apparently putting really cold ice water into the humidifier and setting it to low makes a decent ghetto air cooler.
Just the ice bucket seemed to help last night, although I have no idea how much was the coming storm. Best moment ever was waking, reaching over to see if the air was cooler, then rolling a bit to see Cody crashed out on her back, all four legs curled in the air and just turning her head to me with what I swear was a grin...

Me: Hmmm. We can try it on the miserable Monday they have promised us.

I filled the ice bucket again this morning and put it in front of the bedroom fan because I decided I didn't want to take it out of the window. I came back into the bed room and Cody had immediately hopped up on my clothes to lie down in front of the coolness

R: She's like the wussiest desert creature ever.

Still not good enough?
Well what do you want? I told you I got nuthen.

Sorry but I haven't even had any real time to crawl the web. And, more bad news, it's a long weekend coming up so I doubt I find the time to post. Promise you'll miss me?
Thought not.

True story, unsolved mystery: with spin too funny not to link

In the 70s, "pimping" meant: "procuring customers for a prostitute." Now it means: "doing an extreme car makeover on MTV."

Did you know: Fewer than 1 in 20 attending physicians have had any formal training in pimping. Neither did I.

I use to spend a-LOT of time in hotels, mostly for work.
I also spent much of this time in my room. Hiding from the people I worked with. Entertainment is lame so I usually brought a book, notebook, flask, J, music, and what ever else I thought I could fit in my bag. I am "that guy" who unpacks and actually uses the drawers in a hotel even if I'm only spending one night. So I'm into everything anyway and sometimes I was curious (and paranoid) so I've looked for the safe, camera or microphone a time or two but I've never noticed anything like these secrete wall tattoos imagine if I HAD found them.
R once found a dead mans shoes. He was in a hotel in NYC and the room was clean, spotless, except for a pair of shoes neatly tucked under the bed. He theorized that it was probably a hit and they didn't realize the guy was barefoot. He still wears those black Hushpuppies. That's gotta be bad luck, right? I mean a dead guys shoes?
I guess its better than if he had been at the Red Lion Hotel Columbia River he could have come home with Power Rangers sneakers .
Everybody eventually loses something, leaves something behind. I lost a notebook, that I was writing poetry in, when I was 16. I was out of town at some conference*. The girls I was sharing a room with were having a party so I sat on the floor of the elevator, riding it up and down with guests, all night writing. I called the hotel but it was never found. Seriously it was good stuff too. All angsty and deep. At 16 you hope someone will appreciate it like found art, but fear someone will publish it as their own.
* Heh, I had to look that up. Who knew it would actually be related to a job I have now. (no you may NOT call me a dork)
I've stayed in motels so bad that I bought bleach to pour in the corner of the room to kill the funky smell. I left the bleach in the bathroom for the cleaning crew, or next guest. Which ever actually looked in there. I left all kinds of stuff in the room when I left Amsterdam. I actually have a ton of hotel stories, but I'm no short story writer. I have huge respect for those who do it. How you: define character, include rising and falling action in the plot, dialogue, etc; all in 20 pages, HUH?!
I can't even do realistic dialogue. I would always hate it when professors thought the poets should write a story. That's totally not fair! I've spent my life learning how to say something in as few words as possible. Even though the days of professors and workshops are long past I still attempt to write now and then. R totally put me to shame with the last NaNoMo. Not only did he finish (ON TIME), it was good. But he's a writer. I'd link it but I think there's something almost a little Incestuous about linking someone's internet published nano or bloggery when you are both in the same household I'd love to be able to write the way, the writers I know, short stories make me feel. All excited and depressed. Jealous of their brilliance, chewing slowly over every word hoping it will last for ever, or to find something to critique so I can have something intelligent to say when I'm done besides "I love it, I hate you."
Whoa, I would say I'm totally off topic, but what topic would that be?
I just got a little carried away with all the writing going on around me. Someone feels that they maybe too dark, someone thinks they can't find a beginning, someone's quit writing, someone thinks they can't, someone thinks they can. And what is the important thing I take away? Aside from a moment in the shoes of someone else? I see people trying. I see brilliant minds that would go other wise wasted in our: workaholic, Nintendo, TV, Paris Hilton obsessing, *reality show watching, gapers delay - rubbernecking, society.
*Reality? Really?
I guess I could be writing too, but I'm way too busy web-crawling.
Notice intentional omission of internet in societal "drain" description.
See, sometimes I love you internet

Okay, I guess my rant is done. I must obey the call of the almighty dollar

Additions

You should take note of the additions I have made to the links.

Most of these I stumbled on to being the naturally curious creature God intended me to be. I said that some day I'd leak some information and let you know where some of the "worth while" writers were. Now, now, don't be offended if I haven't found yours yet. Although I do have quite a collection I read daily now, I do still find time to browse. I will not link everything I read, I think I may rotate some in or out. I still want to keep something my own private stash (well, maybe I'm not sure about their ripeness yet) and it is with almost reluctance I introduce you to these because I am the kind of person who likes to be on the cutting edge, see? And once they become so mainstream popular in the bloggity-blog world I'll have to lose interest.
"Oh, my how passe."

Weather report

It’s been hot.
That’s it now, have a nice day.
Just kidding

I have a low threshold for heat. I wilt like a delicate flower. When I say this to anyone who knows me the break into peals of laughter. The idea of me being delicate is somewhat preposterous to them. But its true, the heat is hard on me.
It is the driest it has been since 1922. There hasn’t been any rain for almost 2 months, although the Meteorologists will say differently. It is not fair to say I have gotten rain just because some selected part of the city or suburb did. That’s like saying “We had cake” but not everyone got some.
This past week we have had temperatures of 97 and 100. Combine that with the amount of pavement, blacktop, and traffic and I’m surprised more people aren’t keeling over. I’ve actually started freezing bottles of water to pass out to the spangers on the street. They seem appreciate it more than money. I’m not doing it so people will think I’m great and I’m not telling you for that reason either.
1) I don’t want dead people littering the sidewalk and
2) I’m saying it’s hot!
Besides combine dead people and this heat and it’s gonna be worse than unwashed sweaty BO on the bus.

So my grass is dead, and my gardens (both the flowers in the front and the vegetables in the back) are struggling. I spent Friday afternoon toting many, many 30 gallon buckets of water to them. Pouring it into a bucket with holes in the bottom for a slow absorbing watering. I did this for an hour (3 to 4) and kept going into the house to collapse. I hopped in the shower 3 times to cool down. By the time R came home I was in the 3rd stage of heat exhaustion. I was staring vacantly (nothing new there) slow response, and I’d quit sweating. That final one was when I knew I had to quit. Too much water, not enough sodium, and a lack of whatever else it is that makes your body shut down.
R: Hey, you okay?
Me: I watered the plants Stare, stare, stare
R: Looks at wall I am fascinated by And are you okay?
Me: 30 gallon bucket, smaller bucket, tired, hot looking around for the voice I hear that I assume is in my head
R: Um, …okay?
Me: And still only the first 2 inches down are even damp.
R: I think we need a hose

I’m a delicate flower ...

So the next day my back is tense, my neck will only let me turn my head so far and we have social activities all day. Out to get the hose and grocery shop. I’m still drinking water like a mad person but it’s far too hot to eat. Then we go to a cook out. I guess these are usually held outside. Damn Sit in sun, Consume; Mojitos, beer, 2 chips and a slice of steak. On to dinner at a Vietnamese place where they put hot charcoal grills on the table and you cook it your self.
I cooked for anyone at our end of the table, didn’t eat and kept drinking wine. More wine, Bring more wine Apparently their wine is like plum Sake. Then on to bowling where I became loud, obnoxious, and threw a few (apparently) hard punches at a friend (still?) mocking him that he couldn’t take a punch, and had some choice words for R when he told me to sit-down and relax (which I cannot recall).

I’m a delicate flower… and I’m stupid too.

The next morning I was mortified by myself. I told R that, and he let me know it was worse than I remembered. Oh My God! I made a complete ass out of my self in front of his friends. He kinda excused it as being sick and achy and well, yes, quite drunk. Considering the (continuing) lingering feeling of shame. I think I need to take a (short) sabbatical from liquor.

Vibes

The coffee shop plays the hearts adrenalin
sounding raspy like Dylan and sometimes Tom Wates
while the steam jockey looks like he could be my brother
except for the absence of love in my eyes.
The steam kisses him for me.
Rattling, shaking, hissing
as the espresso bean grinder
pulses under one hand, while the other
rat-tat-tat's old grounds aside
making a thick mud consistency strong enough
to walk back to Mississippi on it's own.
The humming grows louder
the more sleepy people begin to wake up
the more motion the more consumed
the faster they vibrate
until perhaps you think their standing still
as they force more hot vibrations
down their stomach, chanting ah sweet bean
as the macchiatos, lattes, espressos, and mochas
line up at the edge to jump to the hands
of the people as the sit or stand
in a forward motion

America is a good place, a friendly place, never mind the screaming coming from the basement

Koya, the briefly mentioned dog, should really have a story of his own. I owe him at least that much. This story is full of shame and some minor drug use (What is that an NC17 rating?).

So now my Portland roommate had a dog.
When I first got the owner to rent me the house I had to lie a little. He did not want pets and we had 2 cats. One seemed to be okay but two... I told him the cat I had was temporary as it was my sister's and was in the army (this was after the Gulf War and the beginning of Kosovo "Military Action") who could say no after sad faced eyelash batting. These days we'd call him unpatriotic if he had, but back then we thought it was okay for someone to be master to their own opinion, property, and decisions. In truth, she was in the Army and the cat was mine. Dogs had been specifically forbidden. But Kristen (my roommate) was young and (though I knew she made a lot of bad decisions) I felt they were hers to make. If you save someone from themselves they never learn anything. Besides he was homeless and she swore she'd take care of him. Koya was a cute (looked like a chow Shepard mix) puppy. He was a great joy to Kristen and we both enjoyed taking him for walks: up Mt. Tabor, to the beach, in the wilderness. We spent all of my off-work time hanging out with eachother and with him. He was a puppy and liked to chew things, lots of things. He also had lots of accidents. I worked double shifts almost everyday. Came home and cleaned up the house, the shit, fed everyone, paid bills and didn't have much time to train Koya.
What, like I'm not gonna try not to look like an asshole in this story?
I was able to train him to pull me on the rope swing in the backyard. He would grab the dangley bit below the plank seat and play tug of war flinging me forward and waiting till I returned then dragging me back. It was so cute the neighbors wished they could get their dog to do it. I was almost able to get him to heal (a handful of times), and got him to sit and (kind of) stay, but I wasn't there enough to train him to ask to go outside. Things got worse and worse. Kristen tried putting him in the basement (where he barked non stop) when she was out during the day. I have a feeling that she was gone too many hours but at least the shit wasn't in the house. He was always being reprimanded and when he was bad upstairs he got sent to the basement, more barking, with us yelling for him to be quiet. That is not good training. His "you've been bad" place shouldn't be where he gets left all day. I felt bad for Koya, even though he had eaten several things I valued and he wasn't my dog, I felt I needed to do something. I tried talking to Kristen, without good results. I tried tying Koya up outside, without good results. Our landlord contacted me about the holes in the yard?
Holes, REALLY? A dog? Noooo. We have 2 cats. How could we have a dog?
Back inside Koya came with a promise from Kristen she would work with him.

We had been street kid central for a while. Housing up to 6 a night. It started with one now and again. I liked talking to them, they were interesting and, for the most part, respectful. We had 2 regulars, then 3, then word just spread. Though I often longed for the seclusion of my room I usually relented to share the stories and joint that the street kids rolled in half truths and split cigar skins sealed with honey. They sometimes used the pad for bulk deals. I had never seen so much weed in my life, and somebody invariably packed a bowl or two. Or pleased with a new piece, came there to see the sweet fluffy buds dissolve into ash changing the color of the new glass. I have seen them come in as high rollers and leave punked out. They wandered in and out as it suited them, but when it was up to me they had to go.
Your a guest, and guests leave.
But you let THEM stay.
I have let HIM set up a tent on the back deck until he agrees to take a bath, I know them but I don't know you.
Standing squared in the body sprawled living room, I flashed my eyes and threw the bums out. I never pretended and never changed. Sulking, they tucked their tail and left poorer being kicked to the streets by a chick. I guess they liked being kicked out because they kept coming back, bringing their buds Kristen couldn't turn them away if they puffed her. I'd still kick them out. In the end neither of us could deal. My roommates solution was to move in a third roommate to make rent because she still didn't have a job, and reasoning the people would leave if someone slept in the central room. I preferred to just continue to kick them out when they overstayed their welcome most shaking their heads, as they walked down the steps, trying to figure out why they were leaving. There were a couple of people willing to take the spot. Between the final 2: one, although had no current means, was a good worker as guest and had a good work history. The other had a stipend from her dad. The roommate Kristen chose (which I told her was a bad idea) did nothing to help with Koya. I came home to her sitting on the couch with a pile of dog shit in front of her.
Oh, god!
What?
(Me calling Koya and showing him his mess (bad dog)
The pile! Don't you see it in front of you?
Yeah
When did it happen?
A couple hours ago.
Did he ask to go out?
Well he was whining at me before he squatted.
You Saw him do it?
Yeah
I felt like rubbing her nose it. He had done everything right and I just punished him. I felt like the biggest pile in the house. No wonder this dog was getting more violent. He was confused. He was abused. This was no way for an animal to live.
I told Kristen she had to find another home for him. I explained why. I told her what was happening here was the same as training a good dog to be bad and perhaps if we got rid of him now maybe he wouldn't be ruined for life. She argued, begged, and cried but the next day she took Koya to a no kill shelter.

*disclaimer: I have such guilt over this I have to say I am a good dog owner. I have grown up with animals. I have trained dogs and my dog is one of the most loving well trained dogs in the (non-professional) world. My dog is from a shelter, as are all of my mothers (who runs a foster home for dogs). See...Feeling very guilty.

But it makes a great story now...

Between Big Dummy's recent move and a blog I've been reading from the west coast I've gotten a little nostalgic about the great northwest. I loved it there, it is my Xanadu. But from my first month there you'd never know it.

I almost spent my first night on the streets. Seems Hotels don’t take cash anymore. Sure I could pay in cash when I checked out, but they wanted a credit card and I don’t believe in them. We argued, and eventually they let me give them a damage deposit up-front. It was just a temporary location. I was looking for something available immediately and cheep.
The ad said, 100 year old house, must like pets, room for rent. What it should have said was cowgirls seeking tolerant housemaid to help with daily living skills, endure a judgmental Mormon, and feed 5 Chihuahuas, 2 cats and a hedgehog. It was a house full of estrogen, some in human form and some in horse form. This mother daughter cowgirl duo was to be joined on occasion by cowboy Troy (the fiery haired middle child), and sister (now Mother of two) Terry. It was soon clear this ideal on Willamette was not so ideal. The morman house mate was so unendureable I hid a bottle of wiskey in my room. Between tripping over the saddles and trophies I read the home and for rent section every day. The prices were almost enough to drive me to get another job, but I had to have time to find a place. So I sent for a roommate from back east. She moved to Portland with 2 suitcases and a cat, and the two of us lived in that 10x4 space, with 2 cats, a dresser, a coffee pot, and a chair (during the day we rolled up our sleeping bag bedding).

Apparently I could not have a guest for longer than 2 weeks and we had to move out. It's not that we wern't looking. She looked while I was at work, we looked at night and on weekends. There was just nothing. We were are about to crack so we took our last $85 (before my next pay day) to buy a LONG list of places for rent. What a waste. Desperate, and heartbroken by the crap we were finding, we decided to just look around an area we liked. We were driving around 42nd and Hawthorne, a lovely little area, when we found the house. We found our house in a soft sunny Portland rain, literally, at the end of a rainbow. This little green house behind bushes and a great catalpa tree was for rent. It had a front porch and a back deck. It had 2 (count them two) bedrooms and a yard. It beat all the craptacular apartments we had seen. The guy and his son showed it to us, it was only a few hundred more than the apartments. Sure there were utilities, but we would soon have 2 incomes. I asked what he needed. He said fill out the form. I said “What do you need to sign with us today”. I made the guy sign with us that day, none of this wait and see crap. He signed as his son got my keys out of my car, which I had locked in there in all my excitement. I was late to work out in Beaverton that day but after more of my make-it-happen-now tactics they even hired my roommate on.

My grandfather became seriously ill and I had to fly home. Go back to the farm land, flooded by: relatives; memories; tension; and the Amaquansippi or the Sangamon. The waters, already high, reached only a quarter of the early growth on the crops. I was weeks early for the funeral, but all caskets look the same closed. I'd helped pick out caskets and dress the dead before. It was ok not to be there this time, and every one understood, except maybe me. My being back was less tragic to me and became more comical as I found myself knitting baby blankets, and even more so, when upon my return to Portland I found: my car had been impounded (Because my roommate didn't have my current proof of insurance), she had lost her job because she had been stranded somewhere, and we had a dog. My flight got in at 12:57 a.m. My roommate was waiting for me with a mutual friend from work. He had driven. They looked sheepish and guilty. The story unfolded and my car had been towed from Mollala because of lack of (proof of) insurance, 3 days ago. I had only been gone for 5 days. She and some kids had decided to take off for a weekend party the day I left and she had been pulled over on the way back. The insurance card, as luck would have it, lapsed the day I left too. Although it was paid early it does take at least a good 4 extra working days for
mail to get from Illinois to Oregon. In fact my father suggested I just pick a card up while I was in Illinois. But since when do daughters listen to their fathers? My roommate informed me she had been stranded. They wouldn't release the car to her because she wasn't the owner. The officer who ticked and towed assured her it would be no problem. I now believe that she was just fortunate he mislead her instead of arresting her for auto theft. But she was determined in that post-college/ pre-realism sort of way to get my car back. Who knew it would be such a Herculean effort.


After: being denied the signature of a notary public at my own bank (Washington Mutual, don't bank there) which the city informed me my roommate would need (I would released the car into my roommates possession so they can release it to her), having called the police station to verify the situation and being ill treated when merely asking how I was to get to the impound yard; six busses and 12 miles of hitchhiking later as I was at work. Meanwhile my roommate was being rejected by the system again. She called me at work and finally after beating into the proper authorities head that yes indeed they could take a fax from my insurance company that, although it had no expiration date (it plainly showed beginning date as being 7 days before) she was then told by "The One Left In Command" to hitchhike home. My roommate is 20 and just cute enough to get killed. She relays all this to me when I get home. By now I am madder than a hatter at a tealess party. How dare the authority figures, we are taught to obey and respect, tell anyone's child to hitchhike?!
Mothers move from Mollala.

So I call into work so I can go with her the next day. I demand an explanation about the problems from the day before. The over baring secretary explains (perhaps to argue away the time while doing paperwork) that they couldn't release the car "what if it had been stolen?", "what if I wasn't who I said I was?". She then went on to inform me that she could have notarized the statement we needed for release...Hmmm if we could have both been there I GUESS WE WOULDN'T HAVE NEEDED IT! I am thankful the impound was only a few more miles walk, and the secretary didn't tell us to hitchhike.

Court Mollala, again.
She also has a ticket for speeding, while she was following someone. Well, they are still Illinois license plates. I told her to go plead not guilty. She better not have to pay any of that. She paid enough in losing her job and towing and impound fees. Behind the court house the 94 car is dead, just the battery. Mollala is jinxed. The judge assures her, the garage assures her, everyone assures her that the police will help her. They carry equipment in every car for just such things. Unless you're from Illinois. The same sour-faced lady, would not help, would not listen, would not even open the tiny door to the tiny station for my roommate. The people of Mollala itself seem to be o.k. The bus lady, the tow people, the kid who jumped the car, maybe they import the police from Indiana. Nah, hitchhiking is illegal in Indiana.

Oh, did I forget Fathers day?

A man who was told by his doctor that he was suffering from acute alcoholism. The man said, "Doc, I can't tell my wife I am suffering from alcoholism. Isn't there one of those big medical terms that I can give her?" The doctor said, "As far as I'm concerned, there is no other term for it but alcoholism."

As the man left the doctor's office he passed a music store and in the window his eye caught the word "syncopation". That word seemed to strike a responsive chord somewhere. When he got home he told his wife the doctor had said he was suffering from acute syncopation.

That was all right until she looked up the word in the dictionary and read: "Syncopation - an irregular and erratic movement from bar to bar".


My mom sent me that little gem yesterday. As is a tradition these days, when my father and I get together we practice Syncopation. Mother questions more and more often these days, but that is quite possibly because we drink more and more. My sister is right in there with us (for the most part) and between the 3 of us...Well 3 average people can lap up quite a bit add in any little stressor like, oh, I don't know, family and liquor runs WILL become necessary. This was just a weekend though. It wasn't some extended weekend or holiday or anything. There was no need to come pre-stocked, it seemed unnecessary for me to have my flask on me, it probably would have seemed like over kill if I stopped for a drink before I got there. After all it's just 2 days, and I got into town before noon. Dad was sleeping when I got in. Mom said he had eaten breakfast and gone back to bed. She had all these errands she wanted done and in our family we must ALL go out on the errand runs (it's an event!). So I said Let's not wake him up. That would just be rude. Hi dad I'm here, now I'm leaving...Happy Fathers day. So we take stuff to people and get stuff, and take the dogs for a walk, and go shopping for clothes (I HATE shopping) and get most everything done by 6pm. SIX PM?!?! All that in only six hours. WOW! And guess what. Daddy was up when we got back. Imagine that.
We went out for an early dinner at a place with no liquor license (how barbaric!). So I suggested we go out for a drink after. The sibling wanted to just pick something up. But the house is 2 blocks from a great bar, and the walk will be good for us. So I won and kissing my mom on her short little forehead told her we were just going out for 2. Knob Creek on the rocks, that's all it takes. But this bar also sells package. This place is the original package place. It's a drive through. Always has been always will be. So we get some Dewers to take home. Long story short? Monopoly, a movie, 1/2 the dewers, bed after 3am, up before 7, and I wasn't hung over...yet. I was drunk. Happy fathers day! Now get out there and get your chores done and sweat it out in the sun. Errands were done yesterday. Gardening, yardwork, and other general manual labor had been saved for today. Course dad didn't have to do any chores so I don't know if he was feeling any effects and sister was oddly absent. I guess these chores were all mine. Dehydrated: Check. Tired: Check. Headache: Check. Yup there's the hangover.
I didn't forget to celebrate fathers day, I just forgot to mention it.
Happy fathers day

Rebirth

In time deep Portland I spent my first hours of life,
in a place where many sought Eden, a city absorbed by open sky fringed by trees and water.

The old city. North towards the inlet.
Bound between a distant Mt. Saint Helen chaperon and an ever-present Willamette stroking the bare shoulder of the debutante. In the fall the wildflowers still have room to bloom in the north while south lie lilacs, roses and groves of wisteria.
I follow suit across the shore from the short city in the valley with parks less than 4 blocks in any direction and diversity surrounding on hills of Japanese gardens where she and I stole a sunset memorial weekend.

Driving past high school kids already outside smoking in the haze of humidity and the grey of summer blues. Longing for that one more month before idle minds try to decide what idle hands should do and more austere mature minds demand planning driving young lazy socio-soaked minds crazy with the realization of numbness like the slow rolling of clouds over and down the coastal range. Trapping the heady rose water between young breasts pressing against the aqua grey veil. As she lays her evening out over the Rockies, retreating to the west. Scouting out over the short city boasting 6 or more modest cloud scrapers and with the tree tops taller than most, there is only a small up cropping looking like a town, like some strange oasis of glass and girder but from the top of Tabor at night the city lights give it away against a dark shadowed forest hill and the bridge alight in neon turning the river toxic colors disturbed by the current, the boaters, and the occasional brilliance of fireworks as they reflect brokenly their image, the light intensified. I remember it all in the scent of roses crushed with rain, as I sip orange juice and ginger beer.

A thick glaze over black rock making craggy cliffs unconquerable and the brown ant slick body hills slide us on and tall bare old trees cling to copper green and white rock cliffs at 3000 ft watching like a totem sentry and the flash rain waves over the window panes gently distorting life for, no means other than to force change even if just momentarily, sanity and clarity. Dancing in the sunlight on pumice, tiny prism pools falling like passionate fairy kisses, arc promises through a sky bluer than a Kansas girls eye patchwork with white and grey violet spreads over the heavens bed. The sun or rain shifts, sifting in a new direction, washing fantasy color from the sky. Still eyes await it to appear over the aqua valley, where sun tinged hills edges form green underwater plateaus and level clouds form arctic surfaces. But without an artist by my side, who would believe this aquatic menagerie as the waves crash swirling in an updraft against snow capped porous black mountains.

Laugh out loud

Sometimes you just can't help it.
Today for example I was on the street when one of those heavy thumping loud music cars drove up. Why they think it's their duty to entertain the people and traffic as they drive I'll never know. I suppose if you were driving around and didn't have a radio of your own you might appreciate this public service, assuming you were going the same place and could match the speed of the usually pimped out car, and the guy (gangster or wannabe) didn't decide you were posing a threat and decide to shoot you. I'm not trying to stereotype cars, but...Actually I am. The Trucks and the country music, the beat up dodges or VW's and the grateful dead, the MG's or Trans Ams and the heavy metal, the caddies or BMW's and the Rap, the (borrowed)Vans, station wagons, the Volvos and the le Barrons blasting the latest boy/girl band.
But I look across the street and see the whitest white guy walking down the street apparently enjoying the music. As is expected, of really white white guys and rap, his dance is comical and seems to just encompass his shoulders. Like the music is pulling him along. Beat first one shoulder jerks rippling down to the hand beat then the other beat beat each leg taking 2 beats to move one step. This guy has rhythm, totally comical rhythm, but he definitely is using the beats. Shoulder, leg-leg, shoulder. Pause shoulder shoulder leg-leg, shoulder, leg-leg. The light changes and the bumping car begins to slowly pull away. The driver has noticed this guy too. I'm not sure if he finding this as amusing as I am or if perhaps he thinks this dude is mocking his music (which is what I would be doing). Mock 'em till they look. Obviously they want my attention, right? So I begin the headbanging, drum solo, pumping or grooving (depending on the music) till they look. ...What? I was just fixing my hair, doing car aerobics, oops I dropped my cigarette, I'm not doing anything giant mad looking red neck, I was just looking straight ahead. I SWEAR!
The guy keeps walking that way after the car has gone.
Oh my gosh, I'm going to hell. I just laughed at some poor guy with a twitch.
All the sudden he's the coolest whitest white guy.
After all he's got rhythm, and the best excuse for being a bad dancer ever.

You call that dancing?
Actually no.

Big Dummy’s moving day

This weekend Big Dummy said good-bye to Chattanooga. It was a good run while it lasted: The hiking, the boating, the fishing and wandering in nature. The mountain edged sunsets and lunar eclipses. The downtown: the river and walking bridge, bars and clubs, the Scottish fired eggs and boccie. The crazy houses up in the hills covered in junk. The Church of God with Signs Following

One last drive, one last box, one last look, one last drink.
One last to last him.
Back he is plunged into the old hometown. The place most of us struggled to get out of since birth. The blue collar crap town that just got it’s first Starbucks (inside it’s first Target) as the population dwindles and the pollution grows.

Big Dummy calls me. He knows I’ll understand. It’s not so much the going back. A town can be a home where you already have friends. And a job is a career when you’ve been there so long. It’s leaving a place you love, not knowing when, or if, you’ll be back again. I felt the tug as he said it. My heart breaks along an old fault line as I remember leaving Oregon.

Send me no flowers. Buy me no beetles

I love plants. Little planty-plants. I love that I again have a yard to plant them in. Yes it's a tiny yard but anything in the city is a bonus. The fact that I have a tiny plot where I can watch my staples (lettuce, onions and tomatoes) grow makes me giddy. There is little room for anything else as the rest of the yard is landscaped. But I take over any little spot left. Which is why I ordered 2 Hydrangeas from Spring Hill. Unhappily they came at different times. Even worse when the first one came it was nearly dead. It did survive thanks to a lot of TLC from me. But when the second one came (a month later) first of all there were 3. Where am I going to put 3 bushes that grow to be about 3 by 4. Apparently I had ordered 3 as they only came in groups of 3. These too were not looking so hot. They had severe cases of black spot. Well, what was I gonna do? Plant the least looking dead one of course. Frustrated, but in love with the visions of lovely smelling multicolored flowers, I dug the hole across from the other bush. As I loosened the plant from the container and stuck my fingers in to loosen the bound roots a beetle fell into the hole I dug.
Well that was IT!
I had R take pictures of the plants and pictures of the beetle because, thank goodness they have a good return policy and, I was MAD. He sent the pictures and a letter telling them he wanted a refund. I wandered around drinking wiskey having had my recreation spoiled Stupid beetle trying to infest my plants. Grumble, grumble, grumble

The next day R got an email back from them confirming his shipment
R: Apparently in the Spring Hill world "refund" means "send more beetles".
Me: Yippie. Is there really a point for me to respond?
R: Okay. It’s fixed. No new beetles after all. And a co-worker told me there is a flower shop near the house
Me: Why? You want to get me flowers or beetles?
R: Are beetles considered bling?
Me: No. And I don’t care what the ancient Egyptian have been telling you

Should have been dead

Everyone knows someone who should have been dead.
I have a friend who seems to have spent his life just missing the mark. He'll probably live forever. Death just keeps missing him. He was 14 or so, at a friend’s house (parents out of town) and on the phone with his girlfriend. His friend kept pointing the shotgun at him and he kept just moving it away. Finally he was fed up and told him to quit. You know what comes next. It's the anti drug campaign that was originally the anti-stupid campaign run under the title Small town boredom kills. The friend says “Its not even loaded.”And pulls the trigger blowing a hole through the wall next to his head.

My family is full of close calls. But I’ll just hit the majors.
Growing up my dad didn't want to belong to a gang, but belong to no gang and get beaten up. belong to the wrong gang get beaten up It was the 40’s and a rough neighborhood in Chicago. So he went to the local chemical plant and began to build bombs. He taught himself. He was good. Everyone left him alone. Life was good. All the little girls wanted to walk home with him. At 15 he blew himself up building a bomb in the kitchen. He blew up the entire house. It gets really gruesome after that. But obviously he survived.
When my precocious sister was 3 or 4 she climbed the apple tree, without anyone’s knowledge, although grandmother was supposed to be looking after her. She slipped on a branch and hung herself by the collar of her shirt. Mother was in the house and knew something was wrong. No. It was more than that, she knew what was wrong, though there is no line of sight from the house to the tree. Our mothers instinct was the only thing that saved her.
It was the only thing that saved me too. When I was being born my mother was pushing one way and the doctor was pushing the other. The Doctor was convinced it wasn't time. My mother (literally) fought him off telling him it WAS time and so I was born drowning.
Come to think of it, my mother saved her brothers life too. When he was in a coma, and everyone had given up she refused to. She fought with the family about them pulling the plug. She spoke to him every day. They had never been that close, yet she was more devoted than his wife and kids. Patting him and reading to him and talking non-stop. We all say he woke up because he couldn’t get away from her any other way.
My mother was a farmer. That’s really all I need to say. Farmers are the only people I know who think nothing of a person missing an appendage. Their life is nothing but daily dangers and a life full of close calls. But they don’t even see it that way. Her father (my grandfather) told me a great story once. He had taken the truck to go out with his friends on night. His dad was strict but trusted him to get home by curfew. So they were out hoot’en an a holler’en (I surmise they had even less to do in the middle of nowhere back then) and he missed curfew. So he is driving home on the old dirt and gravle roads as fast as he can, just a slippin and a sliding all over the place when he sees a glow in the distance. He realizes it’s a fire, and speeds up even more and ends up careening through a field. he said he reckoned he’d hear about the field but the volunteer firemen were, at best, 45 min away He gets there, jumps out and runs into the burning building. He saved people, pets, and a good bit of the house by hauling water up and furniture out, by the time the truck got there. It was about 4 in the morning when, singed, dirty, and tired he got home. His dad was up waiting to start the day. “You missed curfew” so my grandfather explains where he’d been and what he’d been doing. “If you hadn’t missed curfew you wouldn’t have been there. Joe told me that fire started after midnight. Now get cleaned up and I’ll see you by that stump were pulling today.”
It was a true story. He told me that story as a curfew warning/joke. But I just couldn’t get over the nonchalance of all of that.

I guess when danger is a lifestyle the only close call is the one that doesn’t miss.

Birth of a Evil Mastermind

She had told him it was his job to block out the sun.




Coming Smithers?

Life Sized Marionette Actually Dumb Human

Suspended, by wires and a harness, from the top of the Museum of Contemporary Art dangles a man. A crowd has gathered at the tail end of the lunch hour, even for late lunchers, milling between the stalls for the farmers market. Some are pretending to buy, others there to buy find themselves (or the vegetable hawkers) distracted by a life sized marionette. I came to shop but pause with a tomato in hand waiting for the show. I put it down and pick up some broccoli, looking up, still nothing. I wait a while longer examining the rigging and the man high above moving the Deus ex machina. I can't help wondering what this is supposed to represent. Perhaps its some sort of social commentary. The dangley bit is dressed as a normal businessman. Maybe something along the lines of how the corporate man is merely a puppet of the government or how we are all tied to, or controlled by, something. Since it is an art museum maybe something about being a slave to image. He moves about a bit, at one point ending up upside down, but nothing that much more interesting than the lovely plants, fruits and vegetables. Nothing really more pressing than getting back to work. Maybe I missed the "show". Maybe I missed the point. How is this art? The eternal question facing us, less sensitive and less embracing, as we look at a piece of suspended string or solid color canvas. So...is it a cat toy? Hey, that's the color I painted my wall...so it is art too right? For those of us trying desperately to understand "art" we sometimes mistake the trash can in the corner as an actual trash can or don't sit on the bench because it might be art. Maybe I was mistaken, maybe we were all taken in by the window washer.
Maybe this life sized marionette is actually just another dumb human.

Thanks to David

Okay, so I read blogs. Yeah, I do it. So what? So do you, and I bet you found it the same way I found David's. That button in the corner.
I have found some very creative, interesting, laugh my butt off stuff. But I'm not gonna tell you where it is. You go suffer through the Ad blogs, and the crap blogs, and the tripe, and...Suffer like I did. You have to suffer to appreciate the good stuff because you have a base, a cross section. So I'm not telling! Well maybe someday but that's not the story today.
First of all nobody knows this blog even exists (as far as I know). It's just for me. Something to kill spare time. Something to jot down ideas in. Something I have access to wherever I go. So if you have stumbled in here, fine, I mean you are wecome, I hope you don't expect much. Since I JUST enabled the comment "thingy" obviously, I would have no way of knowing if anyone has ever been here, but I suspect not*. And even if they had why would they leave a comment? I don't.
*Hee, hee
Sorry. The comment to the flip flop post? That was actually a letter I sent to a friend and that was part of her reply. I just HAD to put it there.

Anyway, David. Right.
So I read these blogs and NEVER do I comment. But there was this one time... I love those that make you want more. Like a good book, TV series, food, or cigarette. "...the perfect type of a perfect pleasure. It is exquisite, and it leaves one unsatisfied ~Wilde
So I read his stuff for like 40 min. and I didn't think anyone had told him he was good, I couldn't have him quitting because...What would I do then? Try to find some other addiction to replace him with. Anyone who has ever had to transfer addictions knows it's hard. The replacement never lives up to the expectations created by the old one. So I encourage and dash. Then the next time I'm there he has responded to my comment, very sweet. But my profile isn't public so he couldn't read my blog. Well I knew it was common courtesy to comment as other than anonymous, but I didn't realize I should have my profile public too. After all there isn't anything in it, nor will there be. I'm just to selfish and lazy.
So it's david's fault if you found me because of a nonexistent profile. And I will have you know there have been more than 19 posts, and more recent that October of last year. I don't know why the stupid profile put up the dregs of my writing and lies about how much I write. But at this point, since it is the only thing I have allowed to comment on my blog I feel like I have to defend myself from it.

Maybe I should have left my profile private.

I can’t remember Prom

So prom is supposed to be some sort of thing teenagers build up to all year, all their lives? A night you'll never forget.
Puleeze. Ask me who the King and Queen were? Ask me what the theme was?


I don't remember much of prom, or maybe it’s just that they all ran together. I remember where I went to prom my Sophomore year, but I don't remember post-prom. The prom itself was uncomfortable and my date was superfluous. The dress was, one of those things you have to explain the rest of your “hard core” career as “totally not me” but at the time a lucky find at a garage sale and my mom approved of it. I still have the picture. Sweet faced with my curled hair the only thing on my shoulders. The absence of a chest hidden by the absent waist and hips, and the lace flounce where my breasts should have been. I had nothing to hold that dress up. And yes, it was pink. Now you know my dark dirty secrete. Shut up! I was young and I was pretty.
The only reason I got to go was because I got my sister a date. I did that so I could go out till I was 17.
I remember My Junior prom, photo all of us together the PFC’s (and we were Pretty Fucken Cool). All 4 of us girls in one picture. We were going to go stag. One by one that fell along the wayside. My mom wouldn’t let me go with my group of girlfriend: “That is totally inappropriate” and some other choice words. I remember asking a guy, to whom I sold a suit, to go just so I could go with my friends. “Well I know you have a suit…what are you doing next Saturday?” It was theme! We had WWII (hat, long gloves, even her date came in his Army uniform) we had European WWI (all floral and scarved), a 1980's prom queen in apricot with dyed matching shoes and big hair (it was not the 80's), and I went as either a Cavalier lady or a Civil war southern bell in mourning (black satin and velvet, hoop skirt). Man did I look severe in that picture. Never had to explain that one. I seriously looked like I'd chop your head off.

Afterwards a group of 10 ended up at the gravel pit (pit full of water proper for small town swimming) being wild and crazy. My date ended up with the foreign exchange student (WWI) by the end of the night. I was only too glad to provide him for her. I think we had breakfast at a friend’s house in the morning. Southern mom serving all this food up for piles of teens lolling on the floor in various stages of D-tox. Er, no. Maybe that was the morning after the other prom. Who knows? I don't.

I remember Senior prom. I remember the homemade dress I designed, the college date, and running onto the dance floor to be lifted above the heads of my schoolmates, briefly poised with familiar hands around my waist supporting me like a ballerina and thinking that I didn’t know half the people looking up at me. I remember the post prom. It consisted of 2 couples, an empty house, and culminated in a friends frightening moment where a feminine hygiene product that had been there, wasnt anymore.

The things I remember are like pictures. Snapshots or a moment. It's not the event itself that is the big deal.
It's just another reason to get together with your friends. It's a license to have a date. It is not this culmination of a lifetime to spend gobs of money on.

All right people….Flip-flops are NOT shoes!

What is with this new fetish of flip-flops? And I do mean Fetish! They dress them up with sequins and lace. They’ve been built up so they are wedge heels. It’s everywhere I look. This is the business district people, not the beach. No matter how you dress them up they are still shower sandals. And it’s not just idiotic women. We all know women are notorious suckers for shoes; I have 3 pairs by both the front and back door. Most women have at least one pair in the closet they never wear, probably still in the shoebox. Personally I have a closet full of shoeboxes. But nooo. I look around and it’s the men too. What is up? Did someone cast a stupid spell this fashion season? But it’s men too. What is up? Those things aren’t even comfortable with that damn little wedge between your toes being the only thing holding it to your foot, making that floppit-flip sound. Not to mention, but I will, that they are terribly impractical. Remember when you were a kid running around with your friends and someone stepped on the back of the thing, in between the flop and the flip, and it jerked ripping the delicate flesh between your toes as that damn toe peg ripped up thru the foamy sole? Remember how it felt when someone would step on your foot? Remember when you dropped the cup. Who knew a cup dropped directly on the toe/foot could hurt so badly? Or how about the time you dropped the crowbar and it ripped your toenail off, or when your sister threw the lawn Jart and you tried to move but your foot just slipped in the thong from the dewy grass and you had to go to the hospital.
I know, I know, Jarts aren’t legal anymore and people on Michigan Ave. or in the financial district aren’t likely to have crowbars and knives…or are they? After all most people probably didn’t think they would see flip-flops on the feet of the business attired co-worker in the elevator.

The Scholarly Indigent

Sitting outside of the Walgreens next to Neiman Marcus there is a thin African American in tattered pants, dirty business shirt, with a black sport coat and mercilessly bedraggled hat that may have once resembled a
Pork Pie hat or a Jazz hat. I see him there on the ground almost every day as I wait for the bus. In the evenings on my way there I pray no one will ask me for the change I have in my pocket so I can tip it into his hat. Why would I look forward to giving this man my change? Because he looks like he might have been a musician at one time. Because, at one point, his ill-fitting clothes were designed to be business attire. Before he lost the weight, before he lost his job, before he was on the street.
He never pesters anyone, he never asks for anything, most often I have seen him sitting there writing. With the sidewalk as his writing surface he writes on scrap paper with short (golf course) pencils or pens. I don’t know what he is writing. Maybe the mad ramblings in his head, maybe nothing, but the fact that he is writing lets me consider him. In thinking about him he has distracted me from whatever. To me, that’s totally worth the 64 cents in my pocket. So, okay, I’m a snob even about spangers (spare changers). Don’t just ask me for my money. I worked for it you should too. I’d like a little entertainment for my money: a good lie, some music, and the truth. But be careful, of the truth oh spangers (Speaking of course to those who have internet, a computer, and my blog site). Some gullible person may take a sign as the truth. The last time I saw a guy with a sign saying, “I’m just hungry” I happened to be on my way to the grocery store to get lunch. It was such a simple sign. I believed it. So I brought him back a sandwich, an orange and plenty of napkins. He blessed me, for all I know maybe he really was just hungry. But the next day someone else had his sign.

Anyway back to my main man Mississippi John Hurt.
But I guess it should be Michigan Ave. John Hurt

So I was walking through the little park on my way to work following Michigan Ave. John, although I didn't realize it was he. Sports coat casually thrown over his shoulder, Miriam Webster and some other book under his arm. When a young guy comes running up to him and stops him, then I realize its my writer. How apropos, I think, I wonder where he got the Dictionary? But I soon realize he got it from the park bench where this absent-minded guy had apparently left them. Politely John gave the books to the young man. I dunno, maybe I would have just taken my books and gone too. But, the kid left them. Walked away. That was lost and found buddy. Shouldn’t John get something, even just a thank you as he handed the books back without questioning that this guy was indeed the owner of these books. Is it wrong to be disappointed that the kid (20 something) couldn’t appreciate that someone had found his books, appreciate that he got them back with no fuss, appreciate that John might benefit from a trade of money and part with the $1.75 he would later spend in the Starbucks I watched him walk into?

It made me want to go buy John a dictionary, notebook and pen. Does he actually wants those things? Am I doing it because I want to support the image I have of him? I guess he probably would rather have what I would have spent on that.
It’s a tough call.
Michigan Ave. John Hurt, I have a pocket full of change and a notebook from the supply room and I’m headed home.

Flagellants mortifying flesh

Unready, we are all unready.

She cannot bring forth the way she would.
It is as if the world is unready.
Making so many un-accepting.
It’s a double cross.
The double edge sword
Neither you nor them can accept
The world wants it all on their terms.
Now, they want your sacrifice because so many are alone
Later, they’ll want your sacrifice because there are too many in need.

How unfair to be whipped by others desires.
When she went to rehab I didn’t ask for her drugs, though I wanted them.
When he didn’t eat (no matter what mother said) the food was never boxed for others
When did your needs become less valuable that hers or his

Doubly Damned either way
she becomes A Flagellant today

So, it August

We have had our 10 days of spring and have move directly to August.
I would complain, but I can’t really. This year I was actually in town for spring. It was lovely. I should have known it was the end on Saturday. They said it was going to rain for weeks; they had been wrong every time. So why would I believe them? Except for the fact that by 7:30am it was already warm and muggy. The skyline disappeared into a haze of water vapor below the clouds that seemed afraid to fall the 40 stories back to earth. The weather spent the day like that. Completely indecisive. Humid, flash storm, sunny, humid, flash storm.
R has been working on this graphic thing tied to music but it includes a simple game. So he wanted to check out the light and music show at the planetarium.
It had already rained and was sunny and muggy so we thought we were safe (but take an umbrella, we don’t want to taunt the weather too much). So we left for the pier for dinner before heading over to the show.
Lovely and freshly swept by the rain we sat outside and ate, talked, drank, talked, drank, missed the first show, drank, talked, watched the sun paint the skyscrapers and watched the pinks and oranges, found only in sunsets, run down the shiny shear sides into the lake. Finally realizing our bar bill was tripling our meal we left to catch the next show.

It was a way to spend 30 min. It was nice. Ug what a horrible thing to say. Please don’t tell the controller guy, he was so desperately hopeful that someone would have a question. He mentioned it before and after “I’ll be available for questions…!” What kind of (obviously ridiculous) questions could you ask? “Hey does MTV2 let you pick your own music? (Yes because magnanimous MTV loves the choices of planetarium workers) Who makes the graphics? (Graphic art students who think this is a project for a grade) Do you have creative license? (Over running the star projector?...) I can’t really say all that much about it except I always wanted one of those tripy LSD experiences and thought that is what they looked like. Apparently I’m not the only one because lonely projector guy told us that while we were free to leave at anytime we could not be reseated. Not because it’s dark and they don’t have the cool little ushers in red caps with flashlights (although they do not have them) nor is it because the opening door will ruin it for everyone else (which it might) but because “Many people experience the feeling that the floor is moving” Huh? “Cool show…where is the floor going? Hey you, floors come back here”.
But it was merely nice. No euphoria. No earth moving experience. No trance.
Yeah, I have a question. Is that what acid is really like. Like everything else, such a let down from all the build up.

The resounding DHU

What a panel of 15 conservative scholars and public policy leaders do in their spare time

Insert sound of disgust and annoyance

Apparently I will be cleaning the apartment this weekend.

There is at least one cat in the house pissing me off!
I've had to throw away clothes, 2 bath mats, pillows, shoes, etc.
This cat (or cats as I have caught 2 doing such naughtiness). It is very hard for me to resist the urges that would only get PETA on my ass. I swear the only thing that stops me is the thought that, perhaps they ARE just dumb animals and not the vindictive little demons I believe them to be (especially at that moment). That and the fact that the damn things are so small, run so fast, and can hide places I can't get to. Good thing I don't have kids.



Let me just say I have been accused if having a sensitive sense of smell. However, if you know what I'm talking about...then you know that it must only compound the problem.

I decided to weigh myself this morning. The scale gets almost absolutely no use so in order to do this I have to dig the scale out of the corner where cleaner and the tiny garbage can sit on it. Hmm, why does it look rusty. I haven't had it that long.
So I moved the CAT PISS LOGGED scale in the bathroom. Ugh, sniff, gag, clean.
Fine, fine, fine. I'd beat them but obviously this is old, I have to go to work, and they're just dumb animals...Right?
For a couple days this week I thought I smelled...sniff, sniff..."What is that?"...cat piss at work. I thought it was my clothes (which, being hung up and put away made no sense). I thought maybe it WAS on something and then on my chair. 3 days ago, me with my nose on my chair like I'm smelling for farts...nope. Then I thought I had been hallucinating when it wasn't there a rainy yesterday. Today *sniff...sniff*. I smell it again. I change shoes at work, but usually take those off to as I like to sit on my feet. *Sniff, sniff* Is that my foot? I bring my left foot up to my nose (yes I am that flexable). Hmmm, smells a little like... I go wash my feet, but after lunch I smell it again. It's comming from under my desk. I realize it is coming from my Doc Martin sandals. Yippie. I'm sure that comes out of leather. I just busted these out for summer...Now I have to figure out where they were (closet I believe) and clean that too.

It's hard to work when you smell like piss

What's this do? Noooooo......

In the movies, I am definitely the one people are always saying
"Don't touch the...Nooooooo"

There is this "Next Blog" button at the top of most Blogger pages and well being a sucker for buttons (hey look a something that does something) I'm randomly looking at other peoples blogs.
Don't open this at work...
Suddenly I was frightened about what blogs might contain. Until now I only knew that there was poor writing, abrasive opinions and even some good humorous "day in the life" type stuff. I looked hastily around the office, I could have closed the window, but instead I clicked "Next Blog". When what should come up but a perimenopausal hormones sex journal. What sort of land had I stumbled into? Where were all the 13 year old's cute or annoying blogs. Where had the life of a college student or see how cool my life/vacation is/was?
Then it got really surreal. There were Ad blogs. Entire blogs of trying to sell me things. I wonder, what person would look for an on line education or penny stock info in Blogger. I pushed the red button again and again. Well I have to stop this.

Just one last thought. Michael Gartenberg maybe right in the observation that "If Watergate we're happening today, the Nixon tapes would be MP3's and downloaded as podcasts. Deep Throat would have used email and of course Woodward and Bernstein would be bloggers." Why else would the Washington Post have a BLOG?